The Confession of Miss Price
by Polexia Aphrodite
Summary: A healer assigned to assist Snape in his efforts for the Order gives her side of the story. It's all finished and Deathly Hallows compliant.
1. Chapter 1: Still All Night

The Confession of Miss Price

Rating: T

Summary: A healer assigned to assist Snape in his efforts for the Order gives her side of the story.

Notes: Hope you like it. Reviews are appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything related to it.

--

I returned to Hogwarts for the first time since my graduation in the summer of 1995. Albus Dumbledore had told me very little of what my position there would be, only that I had been selected because of the recommendations of my superiors in the Spell Damage Ward at St. Mungo's. I was placed under the authority of Madame Pomfrey, who insisted I reread Cavendish's _Curing the Cruciatus: Healing in the Face of the Dark Arts_ and chatted amiably with me at times but answered my questions about my new position with grim silence. After a while, I stopped asking and learned to be satisfied with the higher pay and quieter lifestyle that had come with my mysterious new place in the world.

And so, though still unsure of my exact duties, I did my best to keep busy during the first month. The vast castle was eerily silent and empty during the days, which grew hotter and hotter as the summer wore on. I spent my time in the quiet ward studying, straightening the untouched sheets on the sterile cots, and reviewing the materials given to me by Pomfrey, who quizzed me on them regularly as she resumed control of the ward in the evenings.

It was a sweltering afternoon in mid-July when Pomfrey told me that the headmaster wanted to speak with me. Her flustered attitude, furrowed brow, and determined frown as she walked me to Dumbledore's office made me wonder if I had been mistaken in supposing that she had ever liked me. Yet it was in that meeting with Dumbledore himself that I learned the full degree to which I was to be trusted. I had never spoken to Dumbledore until that moment, despite having been a student at Hogwarts for seven years. I had never before had the occasion or the courage to speak to such a venerable wizard who, during my own years at Hogwarts had been working to bring about the fall of You-Know-Who. And now, he told me, I was to aid in that same fight, however indirectly, as the medical aid to Severus Snape, whose secret missions apparently required the attentions of a healer better versed in the effects of dark magic than Pomfrey. Externally, I swallowed my apprehension and told Dumbledore that I would be glad to help. In truth, my mind screamed its protestations and wondered seriously if St. Mungo's would consider rehiring me. Dumbledore had told me that Snape and I had spent some of the same years at school together, but the name only brought up recollections of mentions of him in articles I had read following the first war. I wasn't sure how helping a Death Eeater could serve Dumbledore, unless Snape was involved in some sort of espionage…in any case the situation sounded unnecessarily hazardous and completely terrifying. Nonetheless, I was determined to honor my commitment.

Despite my worry, the summer continued quietly. There were a few nights in July when Madame Pomfrey had me wait in the ward through the night, warning me to be ready to treat any number of maladies but to be most prepared for advanced Cruciatus damage. The first night passed calmly. My greatest challenge came from my struggle to stay awake into the earliest hours of the morning. At a quarter past three, the soft 'woosh' of a portkey announced the entrance of a sallow, hook-nosed man into the ward. His robes were dark, in his left hand a metallic mask glinted in the candlelight, which he thrust into his robes quickly. I stood and asked lamely, "Are you alright?" He only scowled and strode out of the room, leaving me to wait until Pomfrey returned in the morning.

Three more nights followed this pattern. On the fourth, the soft sound of the portkey did not reveal the dark man standing tall and disdainful in the center of the ward, but instead what appeared to be a pile of black robes that emitted a muted and very human groan. I rushed over, easily levitating him to one of the beds. Just as Pomfrey had said, there was some Cruciatus damage, not as much as I had anticipated but certainly a significant amount. I cast a number of complicated charms to alleviate the residual pain as he slipped into unconsciousness. After pulling the bedsheets out from underneath him and adjusting them over his still body, I lowered myself into a nearby chair. It was odd, really, to see him lying prostrate before me. I had not yet seen him so still. His skin, even paler than usual, the large nose, the frowning mouth, and dark, sweat soaked hair were certainly unusual, even unattractive. Yet even then I sensed something almost magnetic about him. He must have a certain degree of courage, I thought, to be willing to put himself through such peril. About a half hour later, the combination of the comfortable bedside chair, the late hour, and the gentle rhythm of Snape's breathing lulled me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"Some Healer you are," were the gruff words that woke me a few hours later. Thrusting my grogginess aside, I offered him Invigorating Draught, which he testily refused, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "Are you sure you're alright?" I asked, standing and moving to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. He swatted my hand away, glowering at me as though he had never before been so irritated and stalked from the room. Though I had had uncooperative patients before, his rebukes struck me as unusually affecting but by the summer's end, I found myself increasingly immune to it.

I had wondered how my periodic treatment of Snape would change once the school year started and this time I was soon rewarded with a more timely explanation. A few days after the start of the term, I was summoned to Dumbledore's office, where Snape was waiting. I was informed that the portkey would now lead to Snape's own private chambers, where I was to wait for him. Snape remained mute but clearly unhappy. I wondered idly if he even knew my name before deciding that it ultimately didn't matter much.


	2. Chapter 2: Speak Slow

The Confession of Miss Price

Chapter 2: Speak Slow

Rating: T

Summary: A healer assigned to assist Snape in his efforts for the Order gives her side of the story.

Notes: Hope you like it. Reviews are appreciated.

--

A few weeks later I was eating dinner in the Great Hall, an activity that I often found myself greatly enjoying. The din of the chattering students and staff reminded me of my own school days and came as a welcome relief from the oppressive silence of the hospital ward. My seat was in the far corner of the second to last table with most of the adjunct and non-teaching staff, few of whom I knew. On this particular evening in mid September I was just finishing my meal and a conversation with the animated librarian's assistant when I sensed more than felt a hand on the back of my chair and heard the Snape's serious voice near my ear instructing me to meet him in the staff room. I nodded without turning my head and he swept away. Turning back to the man at my left who had conversed with me so easily, I saw that his eyebrows had risen nearly to his hairline. Clearing my throat and smiling politely, I excused myself.

--

Pushing open the heavy door to the staff room, I found him waiting, standing impossibly still in the center of the room.

"I will be going out tonight. I am to lead you to my rooms."

It was the most he had ever said to me at once. "Alright," I replied lamely. He sneered and strode past me and out the door. I had always thought of myself as a fast walker, but I found myself struggling to keep up with his brisk determined strides as we descended to the castle's dungeons. He led me through the Slytherin common room, a dark, gloomy room that was slowly filling with students as the dinner upstairs was ending. We wound through a few more hidden corridors before finally arriving at a simple wooden door. Snape pulled out his wand and lowered what must have been some extremely complex and dangerous wards and pushed the door open. I followed him in.

The rooms of Slytherin's head of house turned out to be as somber as its common room. A wave of Snape's wand lit a number of candles and a fire in a small fireplace. The sitting room was sparse and threadbare, decorated only with a dark green couch and chair. The wall opposite the door was lined with bookcases. A desk with stacks of papers, most likely ungraded essays, stood in one corner. Snape turned to me. "Don't touch anything," he commanded before disappearing into a connecting room. He reemerged a few minutes later wearing his dark dress robes. I couldn't help stealing a glance into the other room as he reopened the door. I could only gather that it was a bedroom before he shut the door forcefully, his eyes narrowing at me in suspicion. I suddenly felt overwhelmingly uncomfortable. There was something incredibly intimate about being alone with him in his private rooms at the bottom of the castle. The room began to feel terribly small. Not knowing what to say, I was almost grateful when he began imperiously instructing me on how to behave in his absence.

"You are not to touch anything. You are not to look at anything. You are to stay in this room only. Do you understand?"

I sighed in irritation. "Yes," I responded, my frustration at being spoken to like a child overpowering my former awkwardness, "And I would appreciate it if you didn't speak to me like one of your students in the future." He scowled and sneered predictably and left without a word.

After several interminable, excruciatingly boring hours of sitting on Snape's sofa, looking at and touching nothing, he returned. Standing in the middle of the room, he seemed lost in thought and uncharacteristically absent-minded as he gestured for me to leave.

The months carried on like this. About once a week, Snape led me down into the dungeons and I waited in his room until he returned. He never seemed to return with any serious injuries, only minor Cruciatus damage or superficial wounds that were easily healed and even some that he healed himself. More often than not, he was completely unharmed. I was beginning to wonder how necessary my presence really was. More interesting than dealing with the elementary wounds he returned with was wondering how he would act when he returned. There were nights when he quietly dismissed me, as he had on the first night. There were other nights when he returned seething with anger and turned on me when I asked if he'd been hurt. He'd been surprised when he found that I could meet him shout for shout but I was always the one who regained my senses first and fled the room before letting things escalate. Somehow, these arguments always left me trembling though I couldn't remember being afraid of him.

Very rarely, twice in fact, there were nights when things were altogether different. He arrived quietly and I expected a routine dismissal. I stood, he faced me, his eyes dark and unreachable. "Do you want me to go?" I asked and, surprisingly, he shook his head and asked if I would like a drink. The first time we sat on his sofa, each with a goblet of elf-made wine, I did my best to make conversation. He was only mildly responsive and I found myself prattling on with few interjections on his part. It wasn't until later that night when I realized that he wasn't looking for conversation, he had just wanted the company. I didn't know why the thought that this man, unpleasant though he was, could be lonely affected me so deeply. The second time this occurred, the circumstances were much the same and he remained mostly quiet. Though there were still nights when he would return only to argue and throw me out, I found myself warming to him. Perhaps I saw in him someone else who knew how lonely the castle could be, someone else who understood how easily one could isolate oneself. I have already admitted that I found his courage in the face of a dangerous assignment admirable. It's so hard to say now.

A long stretch of months passed during which I saw him only a few times. He was rarely summoned and only occasionally appeared at mealtimes. I felt the break in our routine acutely, though I chastised myself for such foolishness. It was mid-April when he discreetly pulled me aside as we passed each other on the way to breakfast. I ignored the way my pulse raced as he touched my elbow and nodded when he told me when to meet him.

--

He didn't return until very early in the morning. As he had once before, he arrived in a heap on the floor but something was noticeably different this time. He wasn't moving. I gently moved him onto his back, calling his name, my mind erupting with worst-case scenarios. He had suffered extensive Cruciatus damage, the front of his robes was torn and blood dampened the dark fabric. One eye was blackened and a number of smaller, superficial cuts littered his face. Using my wand, I cut through what remained of his shirt, revealing three large gashes across his chest. With my advanced training, they were not terribly difficult to heal, but it was hard to tell how much blood had been lost. I searched through the healer's bag I had had the sense to bring, found and administered a blood replenishing potion. After casting some spells to attempt to help the pain from what must have been repeated Cruciatus curses, I decided that his condition was stable enough to use a levitation charm.

Opening the door to the bedroom I had once been forbidden to step foot in, I turned down the dark green comforter and ivory sheets. Returning to where he still lay motionless in the parlor, I knelt down, brushing the hair from his face and calling his name. I was answered with a distant moan. I delicately moved him to the bed. After unbuttoning the cuffs of his overcoat and shirt, I somewhat clumsily slid the two layers over his shoulders and off his arms. I couldn't help staring for a moment at the Dark Mark seared and black on his forearm; aside from pictures in books, I had never seen one so close. He was now conscious enough to notice my hesitation. "Don't," he murmured feebly. Looking up at him, he seemed painfully self-aware and I felt a swell of guilt for making such a clearly private man feel so exposed. Trying not to blush too furiously and being exceedingly careful to be as prudent as possible, I removed his boots, socks, and pants, the latter of which inspired a groan of protest from the weakened potions master.

As I moved away, I felt his hand touch mine in a gesture that might have been more forceful had he the strength. As it was, his fingers simply curled around my palm, his thumb resting on the back of my hand. What seemed like a long moment passed. "Does anything else hurt?" I finally asked, the healer in me rising to the forefront. "No," he replied, his face contorting as though he was thinking of saying something else. I hesitated for another second, trying not to notice how warm his hand was in mine. "Good," I said, a little too cheerily, moving away again. I had nearly left the room when I heard it, ever so quietly but unmistakable,

"Thank you, Marianne"


	3. Chapter 3: Back to Sleep

The Confession of Miss Price

Chapter 3: Back to Sleep

Rating: T

Summary: A healer assigned to assist Snape in his efforts for the Order gives her side of the story.

Notes: Hope you like it. Reviews are appreciated.

--

Much later, he would attribute his use of my first name that night as a product of his delirium and exhaustion. Yet it seemed from that point that we could no longer completely refuse to address each other directly, pretending for all the world that we barely had an idea of the other's name. And so he began to call me, ever so politely, "Miss Price." I never felt terribly compelled to mention that my proper title was "Healer."

We saw each other only occasionally that spring. I could sense the anxiety among the staff and students. I personally knew and cared very little about the politics of Hogwarts though I heard occasional whisperings in the staff room about the ministry and the tyranny of a Professor Umbridge who I had seen but never been properly introduced to. Yet these conversations were always quickly ended in my presence.

Although the others, including Professor Snape seemed agitated by such bureaucratic workings, I passed my days quietly in the castle. Truthfully I was often frustrated by the dullness that I had become accustomed to. I had the sense that there was an undercurrent of danger and excitement at Hogwarts that, despite my occasional helpfulness to what seemed like a key player in this drama, I was repeatedly sheltered from. Though I had started my service at Hogwarts determined to stay out of such things, my boredom and curiosity were fast becoming my undoing.

Some of my curiosities were sated that June, when You-Know-Who's return was finally exposed. But I was not satisfied, though I was busier. A battle at the Ministry of Magic had produced a small influx of students at the hospital wing who had, improbably enough, actually fought against Death Eaters.

The return had heightened the general feeling of anxiety in the castle during those last few days of the term and I was not immune the distinct uncertainty characteristic of that time. Every day I thought of a new question. Would my position remain unchanged? Would the danger to Professor Snape be greater now? Or less? My mind was so full of thought that I was entirely unable to focus on any one in particular.

With none of my questions answered on the last day of the term, even by Madame Pomfrey herself, I had decided that, in the general excitement, I had been forgotten completely. It was at last Professor Snape who came to me that afternoon. I had been standing in a corridor near the school's principle courtyard, watching students saying last minute goodbyes when my reverie was broken by a soft request at my left for "Miss Price." Turning, I found that he had indeed snuck up on me, silent as ever.

"Professor Snape," I answered, surprised.

"I've come to say goodbye," he stated brusquely, "Your services will not be required over the holiday." He spoke harshly, but his dark eyes were unreadable.

I took a deep breath, not sure, or perhaps not willing to be sure, why his words make the pit in my stomach swell. "And in the fall?" I finally asked.

He shifted uncomfortably, his eyes not meeting mine.

"Possibly."

Impulsively, I reached out, bringing my hand to rest on his arm. His eyes flew to mine, a multitude of emotions flashing across his face. Surprise. Confusion. Anger. And then a slight softening, almost imperceptible, almost wistful. My hand dropped back to my side, hoping I hadn't actually offended him.

"Do be careful," I mumbled.

He paused, his head dipped in a slight nod. And then he was walking away, his black robes billowing behind him.


	4. Chapter 4: Can't Hide

The Confession of Miss Price

Chapter 4: On the Inside

Rating: T

Summary: A healer assigned to assist Snape in his efforts for the Order gives her side of the story.

Notes: Hope you like it. Reviews are appreciated. Also, thanks so much to those who have already reviewed. As I don't have a beta for this story, it's so helpful to get objective opinions.

--

Luckily, I was able to resume my position at St. Mungo's for the summer. I received numerous letters from Madame Pomfrey informing me of Dumbledore's wish that I should return at the start of term and at the end of August, I dutifully complied.

It would be lying to say that I had not once thought of Professor Snape over the summer. I did sometimes wonder if he was alright. More often than not, I forced such thoughts away as soon as they entered my mind.

I did not actually see him again until the start of term feast. Our eyes met briefly in the crowded hall, he was dark and somber as I had remembered him. I couldn't explain why it made me nervous to be in the same room with him, or why I had to press my hands against the tops of my thighs under the table to still their trembling.

Three weeks later I found myself alone on the sofa in his chambers once again. When he returned that night, he was unharmed. He said nothing upon his arrival, but instead sat quietly on the sofa next to me. The silence rapidly became unbearable. Then I said something I never expected to leave my internal monologue.

"I've missed you"

Even now the fact that I said it still surprises me. I remember saying it so quietly, and spending a torturous moment wondering if he had even heard me at all.

But of course he had, and he turned to give me the most baffled look I had yet seen from him. He stammered for a moment, seemingly somewhere between dismissing me outright and stifling incredulous laughter, before finally deciding on, "You may go, Miss Price."

I left as quickly as my feet would carry me, cursing my own foolishness. But it was true, wasn't it? I had missed him. Why, I wasn't sure. But I had.

Mortified as I was, I returned to his chambers nearly once a week for the next few months. Every time he was called to what I assumed to be a Death Eater meeting, I waited for his return. I wondered what it meant for You-Know-Who's enemies that the meetings were called so much more frequently. As usual, he was often unharmed, with the exception of a few perilous nights when he returned so damaged by the Cruciatus that he was barely able to retain consciousness. On such nights I would treat him as I always had, with the usual cold professionalism. But later, after I had returned to my rooms, my mind wandered compulsively to remembrances of how the candlelight had reflected against his pale chest once I had removed his torn shirt or how the sinewy muscles of his arms flexed when he sorely lowered himself into bed.

Unlike the previous year, we never talked and he never argued with me when I asked if he had been hurt. At times he seemed more receptive to my care, allowing me to mend his cuts and once he even let me feel his wrist for broken bones after what turned out to be a particularly nasty sprain. At other times he seemed almost afraid of me, eyeing me warily as though I were some particularly dangerous threat. Of course I didn't actually think he was frightened of me, no man who could face You-Know-Who himself could really view someone like me as an actual danger.

More than anything, it was hard not to notice how resigned he seemed to have become. While last year he had had the air of someone both volatile and determined, he seemed sadder now, at least he did when I saw him in his chambers. In the great hall, no one could have guessed at a change in him.

In truth, he was not the only one who had changed. The entire student body as well as the staff were decidedly on edge. Amiable chats with Pomfrey turned sour on more than one occasion. It was as though everyone had become completely hopeless over the summer.

Despite Katie Bell's poisoning and the attack on Draco Malfoy, there were few medical incidents to be dealt with, and since my area of authority rarely extended to students, they had little effect on me. I simply kept my nose down, learning to be content with the degree of ignorance that was forced on me by those who knew more than I did.

This peaceful idyll that I had lived in, unaware as I was of anything beyond what I read in the _Daily Prophet_,ended abruptly on a warm night in early June. As I had not been asked by Professor Snape to meet him in his chambers, I was instead in my own humble rooms, though what I was doing at the exact moment he knocked on my door I can't recall. I do remember being surprised that Professor Snape even knew where my rooms were as I let him in. He shut the door forcefully behind him.

"Is there anyone else here?" he asked, scanning the room.

"No," I replied, wondering what exactly he was implying.

"I need you to listen to me very carefully," he began, he was more nervous than I had ever seen him, he was almost visibly shaking, "the castle is under attack. No matter what you may hear in the next few hours, you must not leave this room, do you understand?"

I nodded, feeling my eyes widen in fear. The flip-flop my stomach had done when I first saw him at my door was giving way to nausea.

"Your expertise will no doubt be needed after they've left, but until then you must stay here," he hesitated, "You'll be safe here."

"What will you do?" I could hear the desperation in my voice.

"I…I'm leaving."

"For how long?"

He shrugged. A sharp pain was forming in the back of my throat. He wasn't coming back. My hand was on his shoulder. Then my arms were around his neck, gripping him tightly. I might have been as surprised as he was, but in that moment, holding him felt as natural as breathing. After knowing him for two years, I had seen his anger, his sadness, his courage. I knew him. For so many months, the very thought of him had been enough to produce that warm ache in my chest that I was still all too unfamiliar with. His hands were warm on the sides of my waist.

"Please be careful," I spoke quickly, my voice thick with emotion. I could feel myself panicking as a series of painfully true epiphanies crashed over me along with the knowledge that every moment that we stood so closely would make letting him go harder.

I pulled back far enough to see his face, his eyes were dark and marked by the wary uncertainty I had seen from him so often over the last year. He searched my face and I moved a hand to the side of his. I could already feel fat, warm tears sliding down my cheeks.

In a matter of seconds, his lips were against mine, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me closer. I almost cried out in shock before sliding my eyes closed and moving my arms tighter around his shoulders.

The kiss deepened, his tongue stroked mine. My back was against the wall, my hands clutched his shoulders, his head, his back. A long thigh was pressed between my legs. His hand was buried in my hair, caressing my neck. My head spun.

He pulled away abruptly.

"I…" he began, his brow was furrowed, his eyes bored into mine, "Please…try to forgive me."

And without another word, Severus Snape left.


	5. Chapter 5: The War Inside

The Confession of Miss Price

Chapter 5: The War Inside

By Polexia Aphrodite

Rating: T

Summary: Coping with the aftermath of Dumbledore's death and a return to Hogwarts.

Notes: This is the new Deathly Hallows-compliant version of the 5th chapter. The (fairly) finished story is now all canon-compliant and will be filtering in shortly. A lot of it is similar or directly from the old version, except the ending, and I may have to be really self-indulgent and tack on a canon non-compliant epilogue. Because DH canon kind of bums me out. Also, thanks so much to all who reviewed! It's really the encouragement I've gotten from reviews that inspired me to finish this. Let me know what you think of the new versions.

--

The next day, the news of Albus Dumbledore's death was inescapable. I had also gathered that there had been Death Eaters in the castle but I was aware of little else. That morning found me in the hospital wing, helping Pomfrey with the overwhelming amount of injured. It was there that I overheard Harry Potter reveal the reason for Dumbledore's death. I thought I might faint. Instead I rushed from the room, unnoticed by the others who were too absorbed in the revelation. I couldn't help crying, though I felt more shock than sadness. I didn't feel grief until later that night, alone in my own quarters.

A week later I was approached by the aurors. I had been sitting in the staff room, staring into space, an activity I found myself engaging in more and more frequently. The usual cacophony of thoughts in my mind was interrupted by the entrance of a slender woman, perhaps five years younger than me, with short, dark violet hair. She was accompanied by a shabbily dressed, unshaven man who introduced himself as Remus Lupin and seemed vaguely familiar. I don't remember her name. It's sometimes hard to remember things from those first few weeks after.

They asked me how I knew him. How well. How long. Did he tell me anything about his missions. Did he ever talk about Dumbledore. How often did he go to meetings. Had he made any attempt to contact me. Had he said anything about where he could be going. I answered as simply as I could; talking about it was still difficult.

The woman seemed impatient, the man understanding. They thanked me and left. I don't know if anything I told them helped. I doubt it.

I read the _Prophet _religiously. I searched for any mention of him. With Hogwarts in disarray and my reason for being there no longer valid, I returned to St. Mungo's. I still thought about him. It couldn't be helped.

For the longest time I moved through life as though walking underwater. It was as though everything was suddenly less real. I dealt with the increasing amount of patients and victims of Death Eaters with the same professionalism I always had. But there were sleepless nights when I wondered if the victims in my ward were his.

--

When the news came that first of September, it sent a chill through me despite the oppressive summer heat. He had been made headmaster. My heart lept to know that he was alive, but I knew what he was. Whatever else I thought of him, I had seen the dark mark burned black on his arm. I knew then that Hogwarts had truly fallen.

I received the letter requesting my returned presence at Hogwarts three days later. At the bottom of the page, that unmistakeable sharp lettering had formed the words "S. Snape." My overcrowded mind couldn't even register surprise.

When I arrived at Hogwarts, I found it much as I had left it. The Great Hall still filled with the din of chattering students, overly starched linens still pulled taut across the beds that lined the hospital wing, the professors were still quiet and dreary in the staff lounge, though perhaps their faces were a bit more lined and their frowns a bit deeper. I think I must have expected the castle to be truly turned on its head, if only in reflection of the trials I had felt so personally. The additions of two new professors, an ominous looking pair everyone seemed to avoid, were the most significant change brought about by Snape's new regime.

Snape, despite having sent a personal letter to call for my return, seemed to avoid me scrupulously. More than once my eyes met his across the Great Hall only to have him glance away. With the exception of the two new professors, the staff seemed to revile him more than ever. Even McGonagall could barely withhold her looks of disdain when talking to him.

It was October when he spoke to me again. I had been passing a slow afternoon in the ward. The weather was not yet cold enough to facilitate colds and flus among the student population, no bones had been broken, Pomfrey had gone to Hogsmeade for supplies, and I had been left to sit at the ward desk and read the latest issue of _The Healer's Weekly_. I hadn't even heard him enter, but there he was when I looked up, standing with his arms crossed, dour as ever.

"How are you settling in, Miss Price?" his voice was quiet.

I could feel my heart pounding in the hollow of my throat and willed it to stop.

"Very well, Professor."

His black eyes met mine. It struck me that he looked impossibly weary. Suddenly it seemed incredible that he should even still be standing upright.

"I wanted to thank you for coming back Miss Price," he looked away, "I know it was short notice."

"Of course."

He looked back at me. For an achingly long moment we just looked at each other. Finally, his brow furrowed, a little half-heartedly.

"What is it?"

"I was just thinking," I began, stopping myself to examine my next words as carefully as I was sure he would, "Perhaps we could talk sometime."

His brow furrowed further in what I thought was confusion. He seemed on the verge of answering when Poppy bustled in, her arms full of filled with apothecary bags. Snape slipped out of the room silently as I hurried to relieve the older witch, who had pointedly ignored his exit.

Alone in my rooms that night, I tried to ignore the remembrances of him that stubbornly haunted my thoughts. Closing my eyes, I could still feel his arms warm around my waist, the muscles of his shoulders under my searching hands, the unexpected softness of his mouth against mine. My overworked mind welcomed sleep that night.

A few hours later I was woken by a sharp rapping on my door. Still groggy, I smoothed a hand over my rumpled hair and clothes as I shuffled into the parlor to answer it.

Professor Snape did not wait for an invitation, instead he stepped quickly into the tiny room. The air rushed out of my lungs and I woke up immediately.

He was still not facing me and I couldn't help remembering the last time he had rushed into my rooms.

"Is everything alright?" I asked quickly.

He turned. He looked exhausted.

"You wanted to talk. So…" he gestured vaguely, "Talk."

I blinked, lowered myself onto the sofa, indicated that he should do the same, and started to talk. When I had seen the exhaustion in his face, I had decided not to bring up that night or anything that had happened since. Somehow it seemed cruel to make him discuss something so serious right then. So instead I chatted rather aimlessly about anything and everything. It was rather like the few conversations we'd had in the first year I had cared for him. He offered a few more interjections this time, but he remained mostly silent. As the night wore on, he seemed more at ease, if no less tired. I must have fallen asleep at some point as I remember waking up on the sofa, alone.


	6. Chapter 6: Giving In

The Confession of Miss Price

Chapter 6: Giving In

By Polexia Aphrodite

Rating: T

--

As expected, the encroaching winter brought an influx of students into the ward. The reports of the increasingly frequent Death Eater attacks brought something I hadn't expected. Distressed students, the children of the injured and dead I'd read about in the _Prophet,_ would trickle in throughout the following months. I thought a lot about the patients I'd had at St. Mungo's during the last year. The thought that one of them could have been a parent to one of the tiny first years sent to the hospital wing for crying in class made a painful lump in my throat.

I received a surprising amount of relief from such musings by the periodic visits of Professor Snape. If he saw that there were no students in the ward, he would occasionally come in, leaning against a wall while I sat at Poppy's vacated desk in the corner. At first he would stay quiet, as he always had, though sometimes he interrogated me with the demanding, imperious air he adopted from time to time. His visits weren't frequent, and I got the distinct impression that they were, to him, simply a way to quell boredom. But I didn't mind.

I had little doubt that, though his life was less exciting than it had been when I had first known him, it was still as lonely as it had seemed then. In staff meetings and meals in the Great Hall, despite his new position, he seemed even more ostracized and ignored by those sitting around him. Even the students, with the exception of the Slytherins, seemed more anxious around him than usual. He seemed to accept this alienation with the same quiet resignation I had seen from him before I had left two years ago.

It wasn't that I pitied him. The other professors and students who looked the other way when Professor Snape walked in a room may have had their reasons. But I had the feeling that I knew something they didn't, or at least I had noticed what they hadn't.

The first evening I arrived at his office hopefully carrying a tray with a pot of hot tea and two cups, he had been noticeably flustered. Though it was late and dinner had already finished, I'd known I would find him there. He had complained once about late nights spent filling out paperwork and I, with my damnably foolproof memory for all things related to him, had remembered. It had taken some cajoling, but somehow I managed to distract him from a stack of ministry forms long enough to have a cup. I sat in the chairs opposite his desk as he, at my insistence, confessed some of the more amusing student mishaps that had occurred in his classroom. I'd never heard him talk at such length and I left two hours later, the rush of adrenaline I often felt around him bubbling in my chest.

Over the next few months, my chances to see him either through my visits to him or his to me remained infrequent and irregular, but, whether out of boredom or loneliness or curiosity, he began to speak to me more freely. Though some of my questions, mainly any about his time at Hogwarts or his family were answered with noncommittal shrugs, he willingly talked about nearly anything else. Neither of us ever brought up what had happened on the night of Dumbledore's death. I hardly knew how to even introduce the subject in conversation. Yet I can't begin to count the number of nights I found myself sleepless, clutching the sheets, with the memory of the weight of his hands on my waist, his body warm against mine rising unbidden but welcome.

I didn't wonder if he thought about it. At least I tried very sincerely not to. It was in early January that I learned that my efforts had been unnecessary.

--

The day had begun with an enlightening conversation with Poppy in the hospital wing.

"You'll want to keep away from Professor Snape today. It's more likely than not you won't see him 'round here today anyway," she had told me as she reorganized the potions cabinet. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She had never approved of Snape's visits.

"Why?" I asked, pushing away a twinge of disappointment and trying to sound innocent.

"Didn't he tell you?" she turned, taking in my blank expression, "No, I suppose he wouldn't have. Today's his birthday and Albus always--" Her face froze, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth. I stood motionless, not daring to breathe, wondering for a horrified moment if she was about to cry.

"Well," she resumed after a moment, "Albus used to try to make a big deal out of it."

I exhaled slowly, unimaginably relieved that I hadn't had to struggle through comforting the older healer. I didn't press her further.

--

While I had always respected Poppy for her abilities as a healer and the dedication of her work, I had never found myself inclined to rely on her for personal advice. As such, I felt little remorse about flouting her earlier warning when arrived at the door to Snape's chambers a few hours after dinner.

"Yes, Miss Price?" came the expected answer as the heavy wooden door opened.

"I heard it was your birthday," the words rushed out, guilty and hopeful, "So I thought I ought to come 'round and say 'Happy Birthday.'"

His eyes narrowed. I optimistically raised the bottle of elf-made wine I had been hiding behind my back (and couldn't really afford on my healer's assistant's salary) and gave an expectant, if nervous, smile. He blinked, furrowed his brow, and seemed to be searching for the best way to send me off.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" I offered, determined not to give him the chance, something in me was made desperate by the idea that he should be alone, especially tonight. Seeing the decidedly more opulent Headmaster's quarters behind him, it dawned on me that Dumbledore must have felt the same way.

He pursed his lips, sighed, and stepped aside. Grateful and a little surprised that he had consented, I hurried in.

--

Another two hours found us sitting opposite each other in his parlor, he in his threadbare armchair, which he had imported from his quarters as Slytherin Head of House, while I sat on the velvety, green sofa. A fire burned in the fireplace. Having already covered the topics of how miserably his day had gone, the latest student to nearly set the potions classroom on fire, and the incompetence of at least three former Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers (whom Snape could rail against for hours if no one checked him).

A silence settled on the room. Professor Snape seemed intently interested in the contents of his glass, gently swirling the dark liquid. I, on the other hand, had already finished my second glass and was already feeling its effects acutely.

"Can I tell you something?" I felt myself ask.

His eyes raised, "What is it, Miss Price?"

Our eyes met. My brow furrowed and I felt myself growing almost meditative as I stared into his dark gaze that seemed at once challenging, curious, and terrified at what I might say next.

"I like you. That's all. And…I'm glad we're friends," I almost laughed then, "That sounds a bit cheesy, doesn't it? But there it is. I mean, things would be bloody boring without you. Most of the time Poppy's not much to talk to, you know. Unless you fancy a chat about the possible unknown healing advantages of bobotuber pus or something."

"Perhaps you've had a bit too much wine, Miss Price," he began quietly, his eyes darting away from mine, "You should return to your rooms."

He rose and moved towards the door. I followed slowly, he turned to face me, his hand on the doorknob. We seemed so terribly close and, whether as a result of the wine or my nearness to him, my head swam against my control. I felt his presence so strongly; I had the feeling that if I closed my eyes, I would still be able to calculate the exact distance between us.

"I…I hope you had a good birthday," my hand, refusing to obey the orders of my common sense, lifted and touched one of the buttons on the front of his coat.

He looked down at my hand, which looked even paler against the dark fabric, but made no movement to brush me aside. He frowned.

"Why did you come back, Miss Price?" there was a ragged tone to his voice, his breathing was carefully measured, "Why aren't you in London? At St. Mungo's? Surely there are better opportunities for you there. You didn't have to answer my letter."

He was staring at me intently. The questions had come to him so easily, I wondered how long he had been waiting to ask them.

I hesitated, trying to fabricate some harmless excuse. And then, though the alcohol still threatened to dull my senses, I was struck by an intense clarity in which I knew, almost innately, that that exact and precise moment, itself the product of so many other moments, was not made for reservations and cowardice, but for courage and honesty.

"Because of you," it seemed so simple to finally say it.

He was absolutely motionless. His eyes no longer met mine. I was barely breathing. His expression read as a mixture of shock, confusion, and what I thought might be hope. Then I saw it: that resignation that I had seen so often from him over the past few months.

"You're drunk," he sneered slightly and turned again to the door.

"Don't," my voice was quiet. I could hear my own desperation as I moved forward to close the now-larger gap between us and reached for his left hand, "Don't say that."

Another endless moment passed. I moved slowly, feeling as though any quick movements might be enough to rouse the stern professorial side of him that would no doubt shove me out the door. I placed his hand on the side of my waist, above my right hip. I took his other hand and placed it on the other side. I had thought so often about how it had felt to have his hands on me again, had so often tried to put my own hands where his had been to see if I could mimic how it had felt on that night so long ago. I couldn't believe how insufficient my imitation had been.

My hands left his and traced up his arms to his shoulders. One hand slid behind his neck, wanting to draw him closer. Only a few inches separated us. I ached to press against him.

"Why are you doing this?"

I didn't answer. Not because I didn't know the answer or out of any fear of saying it, I just didn't. Instead I moved closer, feeling my eyelids grow heavy. His eyes were dark with what I hoped was desire. We were so close then, I could feel heat radiating from him even through his heavy robes. It would have been so easy to just tilt my face a little farther, to move just a little closer, but my courage was spent and I felt alarmingly sober. It seemed, however, that my courage was no longer needed.

He hesitated for a long moment. Then, with a slight turn of his head, his lips were on mine. This time was still as dark and intense as the first, but there was an unexpected tenderness present as his hands moved across my back.

Every nerve in my body exploded as my arms tightened around his shoulders. That familiar rush of adrenaline rose in my chest, making me want to laugh or cry or scream with joy and relief. His hands on my back pulled me closer, his chest pressed against mine.

His mouth drifted to my jaw and down to my throat. His lips pressed hotly to a spot of neck under my left ear and I moaned involuntarily, wondering if a person could die from happiness.

He pulled away then, pulling my arms from around his shoulders and stepping back. He looked stricken, flushed, his breathing uneven. He raked a hand though his dark hair.

"What--" I began, my brow furrowing, trying to calm my own ragged breath.

"Go" he said simply, his hand groping for the doorknob.

I opened my mouth to protest but he had grabbed my arm roughly and pulled the door open.

"But--" I finally managed to interject.

"That's enough, Miss Price," his tone was furious but his eyes were lifeless, "Enough."

A moment later I stood in the hall, facing his closed door. My heart pounded, anger, shock, hope, frustration and confusion coursed through my veins.

Perhaps I should have knocked on his door, pleaded with him to let me in again. But I didn't. My mind was worn and exhausted. Away from the warmth of his fireplace, I realized how impossibly cold it was in the drafty, stone halls of the ancient castle. I wrapped my arms around my torso and quietly began the long trek back to my own rooms.


	7. Chapter 7: Requited

The Confession of Miss Price

Chapter 7: Requited

By Polexia Aphrodite

Rating: T

Notes: Thanks for reading and reviewing! There may yet be an epilogue to follow this, as mentioned in the Chapter 5 notes…

--

A long month went by. And then another. We didn't talk anymore. I felt consumed with frustration, unable to stop cursing my forthrightness or his coldness or any myriad number of factors that could have produced this end.

The night I was alone with him again was the first night that it really felt like spring instead of winter. The dark air was still cool, but it smelled fresh and crisp in a way that conjured images of the dewy, clear morning to follow. I wound the way up the staircases, through the castle, to the Headmaster's office and adjoining chambers. The students' curfew had long since passed, and I encountered only the snoring inhabitants of the castle's enchanted paintings and the occasional mournful passing of a ghost. Somehow it felt like fitting company.

Moments later, I had been silently admitted into his chambers. We stood facing each other, but looking away. When at last I spoke, I could hear my own premonitions of defeat in my voice.

"Tell me why you can't."

It wasn't a demand, really.

"I can't," his mouth opened and closed, as if he meant to say more and stopped himself, "I can't."

I moved closer, still not looking up at him.

"Please."

"There are…things about me…about my past…things I can't tell you…or anyone," his voice was faltering.

I moved closer. The room suddenly felt warm, the air seemed thicker.

"Touch me," my voice was a whisper.

His hands darted away from his sides and clutched mine. He gripped my fingers tightly, as if by gripping them he could retain some control. I looked up, his eyes bored into mine. I felt oddly exposed under his gaze, but I didn't struggle.

"Tell me you don't want me."

He looked so sad then. I suddenly felt as though I were inflicting something upon him. Or he was inflicting something upon himself. He let loose a long-suffering sigh and pulled me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me.

"It has to be this way," he murmured into my hair, his lips near my ear, "You have meant a great deal to me."

My eyes slid shut. Even now I cannot say whether the pleasure of his nearness outweighed the pain of what I sensed to be imminent rejection.

He gave a short, humorless laugh and tightened grip around me, "Thank God for you, Marianne."

I know now that I'll never know for certain what I truly meant to him. Or what that night meant to him. But I choose to remember how gentle he was, reverent almost, and how tender he was, loving almost. That is how I'll remember him.

It was the next night that he fled from Hogwarts. I didn't see him again.

--

In the next months there were things I came to know about him, as did the rest of the wizarding world. Unlike certain columnists and speculators, I'll never claim to know the secrets of his heart, but I will come to terms with what I shared with him, much of which has been written in this account, but some of which will never be told.

--

Marianne Price laid down her quill and pushed the roll of parchment across the table, her hand lingering for a moment on the smooth paper.

The auror, whose badge read "Shacklebolt," picked up the roll swiftly.

"Thank you for your statement, Miss Price. You may go."

Marianne left the Auror Headquarters, wound her way through the throngs of people in the Ministry's foyer and exited into the harsh light of day.


End file.
